The Domino Effect
by SimoneSez
Summary: The year is 1985. Professor Alexander Scott is about to have a really, really bad day. And to discover that a certain someone from his past is a part of it won't surprise him in the least.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This is another one of my "old" stories that I recently unearthed in my archive… hope you enjoy._

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

He didn't know how he knew it; it was just a feeling he sometimes had. He hadn't had the feeling in a long time, but it was there now – a nagging suspicion that things around him weren't what they appeared to be.

He glanced around, and saw nothing out of the ordinary; his driveway and the suburban neighborhood around him looked exactly as they had every morning for the past ten years. Of course, he didn't really expect to see anything; the kind of trouble he sensed wouldn't be readily visible. And maybe, really, it was nothing at all…

_You're getting paranoid, you know. Happens to the best of 'em. One day, you walk outside and start to get into your car – and bango! You think somebody's out to get you when there's nobody there._

He had the key in the lock and was still trying to dismiss his feeling of uneasiness when he heard his name called from close by. "Alexander!"

Emily stood on the front porch of their modest ranch-style house, waving to him. "You won't forget to pick up the dry cleaning, will you? I need the gray dress for Saturday."

All his old-style feelings of vague uneasiness melted away as Scotty waved back to her. "No, hon, I won't forget. I'll be home around six."

"Okay."

She blew him a kiss, accompanied by a girlish grin that seventeen years of married life hadn't tempered. "Love you!"

"Love you too!"

And as he got into his car and backed it down the driveway, by now fully awakened from his brief daytime nightmare, there was no one in that upper-middle-class Philadelphia suburb who was more content than Alexander Scott. He was on top of the world.

oo0oo

The pall that hangs over Washington DC on a hot summer day is minimal when compared to that of a metropolis such as Los Angeles, more famous for its smog than any other city is famous for its adverse weather conditions. Still, as in any large urban center, the problem exits. The more fortunate city dwellers have air conditioning to fend off the oppressive heat.

The truly fortunate have air conditioning in their offices as well. Most of the too-fortunate Pentagon was locked into a particularly chilling environment on that particular morning; the system had gone completely haywire, and secretaries scraped frost off the insides of their windows and warmed their hands over their computer terminals.

Inside one frigid office on a lower level, frost on the windows wasn't a problem. It was a windowless cubicle. And had there been frost, it would have assumed an extremely low priority.

"Nothing to report, sir," the young operative told his superior, trying not to let on that he was freezing in his light summer suit. He hadn't yet completed his first year with the Company, and didn't especially want to approach Mr. Robinson with any petty complaints about the climate in his office.

"What do you mean, _nothing_?" The veteran's low, patient tone belied the fact that his intense personal interest in this particular surveillance threatened to rob him of his objectivity altogether. "Nothing at all? Something that turned out to be nothing? What exactly does 'nothing' signify?"

"We know for sure that someone is monitoring Dr. Scott's activities, sir. More than that, we haven't yet been able to ascertain."

Harvard double-talk. Kelly Robinson sighed inwardly. Surely he'd never sounded that way when he'd been the one on the other side of the desk. But then, he'd seldom been standing there alone, as this wet-behind-the-ears young Ivy Leaguer was forced to do. _In time, he'll loosen up. Get him a good partner; that's all._

"I want a twenty-four-hour watch on Scott and his family. I'll assign all the personnel you need. And keep it under wraps. The man's good. He's always been good. You blink at the wrong time and he'll know you're there, and he's not above wrapping you head to foot in masking tape and sending you back here C.O.D. And I want a report every six hours, whether you've got anything to tell me or not. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Mercifully, the brief mental picture the operative had of himself taped up and lying in Robinson's in-box quickly faded. The young man turned to go.

It wasn't a hard assignment. The kid needed experience, and this was the only way to get it. Even if Scotty sighted him and blew the whistle, it wouldn't be the end of the world. It would be good practice for the young agent – and who knew? It also might just save Scotty's life.

Whether or not Scotty had already picked up on the fact that he was being followed was a judgment call; he hadn't varied his routine any, and there were no outward signs of his trying to lose the tails – either the Government one Robinson himself had placed, or the mystery guests who had yet to sign in. So far, Robinson's own agents had been unable to discover who the bogies were, or why they were zeroed in on Scotty, who'd been out of the business since 1970. September 4, 1970, if memory served.

Kelly Robinson had his own suspicions, and was in the fortunate position of not having to voice them quite yet – plus the added bonus of having the entire Department at his command. Yes, Scotty would be quite safe, even if he had to pull in every international operative at his disposal to make sure of it. _Whoever these people are, they're not just whistlin' Dixie._

He checked his watch. _Nearly eleven. _He buzzed his secretary; when she answered with chattering teeth, he told her only that he would be out of the office for two hours. One hour for the funeral, and one hour to sit in an out-of-the-way bar and try to forget the funeral. By the time he got back to the office around one o'clock, he'd be ready to continue the hunt.

oo0oo

As usual, Scott left his office just after five. His short walk to the parking space reserved for the head of the Modern Language Department at the University of Pennsylvania campus was interrupted – as it often was – by a faculty member with a question. This time, it was Kyle Markham, a first-year member of the teaching staff.

Scott tried to pretend he'd heard nothing, and even managed to pick up his pace with such subtlety that Markham wouldn't notice – but unfortunately, Markham was not terribly subtle himself. "Dr. Scott, I know you're busy, but…"

"I am more than busy, Mr. Markham. I am on my way home. It is a well-researched scientific fact that people on their way home tend to be in a greater hurry than they are on their way to work, so I'm sure that you…"

The junior instructor refused to take the hint. "If I could just have a moment of your time, sir…"

"Tomorrow morning in my office, you may have all the moments your heart could possibly desire. Right now, I have to…"

_Damn. _What he had to do was stop and pick up Emily's gray dress at the cleaners… and even as he spoke, he could visualize the pink claim slip sitting on the corner of his desk blotter back in his office. Much as he wanted to keep walking, he came to an abrupt halt and turned around. Before Markham could reiterate his request for an audience, Scotty repeated, "I'll see you in the morning, Mr. Markham." The walk back began with him berating himself for forgetting such a ridiculous thing as a piece of paper.

Markham, although not quite brazen enough to dog Scott's footsteps back to the administration building, was nevertheless determined to catch up with his department head before morning. Resolutely, he posted himself next to Scott's maroon sedan. The window was rolled halfway down, and the door was unlocked – apparently Scott really didn't waste any time getting home at night. The skids were well-greased.

The young instructor reached into the open window to push the lock button down, figuring to buy himself just a few seconds of Scott's time when he returned.

Scotty turned reflexively at the explosion that suddenly burst from the parking lot, and stood staring in horror at the charred shell that moments ago had been his car. Flames poured from the shattered sunroof as a wave of heat hit him, but even the searing wall of charred summer breeze that bit at his face wasn't enough to quell the cold shiver that ran through him as he realized what had just happened.

"Oh, no… oh, God…!" He took a step toward the conflagration, numbly, not really knowing why, or what he intended to do when he got closer. The stench of burning gasoline hung oppressively in the humid air. One by one, the tires exploded.

And Kyle Markham was…

oo0oo

The special line on Kelly Robinson's office phone lit up, and he was on it in an instant. "Yes?" The caller was brief and to the point. "Bring him in!" Robinson snapped. "_Now!_"


	2. Chapter 2

The next few hours were some of the worst Alexander Scott could remember, his worst nightmares made real. From the moment two men accosted him in the parking lot as he made his few feeble steps closer to his burning sedan, he knew.

"I'm back in it…" he said quietly to himself as he sat in the back of the big car driven by men who wouldn't identify themselves to his satisfaction or tell him where they were going. "I'm back."

His words were more to make it real to himself than they were for any other purpose; it might almost have been amusing – if he didn't have that constant mental movie running in his head about what Emily would be going through when she heard about his car, when he didn't come home… when she didn't get her gray dress…

_God… that dress saved my life. _If it hadn't been for that stupid dress, which he had to admit he had never really liked on her anyway, he'd have been standing exactly where Kyle Markham had been when the car blew up – and everything would have been over right then and there. Scott knew he had much to be thankful for – but he was also angry as hell.

"Say, fellas…" he began one more time, directly his off-hand litany to the driver and front-seat passenger. "You know, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather book this trip myself. I've got a Frequent Flyer account at United, and I'd just as soon be racking up some bonus miles as sitting in the back of this reconditioned hearse of yours. Hello?"

No answer. The Plexiglas shield between the front and back seats was thick, yes, but Scott knew there were more microphones hidden in the back seat than there were Communists in China. And he was a little rusty, granted – but he'd bet he could find nine of ten of them before they passed the next mile marker on the dreary Interstate highway. If he put his mind to it.

Hours later, the sedan finally stopped in a Washington suburb boasting manicured lawns that hadn't been manicured by the residents of the large, expensive-looking townhouses. The driver stayed in the car; the front-seat passenger came around back and opened the rear door – a necessary gesture, not merely a polite one, since there were no door handles on the inside.

Scott got out and looked around. "Pretty nice, pretty nice," he nodded. "You guys got much trouble with rent control around here? No, I guess not."

"Would you come with me, please, Dr. Scott?" the young man asked stiffly – the first words he'd said to Scott during their entire drive from the University of Pennsylvania.

"Oh, you _do _talk. What do you know about that? Well, I think you owe me one before I do anything for you. Who the hell are you, and what am I doing here? Who blew up my car, and…"

The man gestured toward the front door of the townhouse they were parked in front of. "Inside, please, Dr. Scott. Someone will answer all of your questions inside."

"Someone _better_, or someone's gonna regret this long and hard." Scotty took a couple of steps in the indicated direction, then turned and dug in his jacket pocket. "Hey, before I forget…" He pulled out a handful of miniature microphones – seven, by exact count, some with monofilament wires still attached – and pressed them into the young man's hand. "You guys aren't any better at this than you used to be, you know that? Don't spend 'em all in one place." It had been a relief, actually, to find the mikes exactly where he'd expected to find them, in regulation by-the-book position; that meant the 'white hats' had him, not the bad guys. And Scott thought it highly unlikely that the CIA had blown up his car.

No, it was more likely there was a third party involved, and this was the Company's C.B. DeMille version of a rescue. He'd had plenty of time to think while dismantling the listening devices in the back seat, and had come to the conclusion that he was in no immediate danger.

On the other hand, the guy responsible for his abduction was in quite probable danger of having his entire anatomy rearranged – unless he could come up with some damn good explanations for his actions, damn fast.

The townhouse drawing room was sparsely, if tastefully, furnished – a Government decorating job, with hardly a personal effect anywhere. The man who led Scott into the room left him there alone, and Scott walked around slowly, waiting… for _what, _exactly, he wasn't sure, but he suspected it would involve a heated argument with some dense bureaucrat. He sighed heavily at the thought of Emily home alone, hundreds of miles away, with no idea where he was or even that he was all right. "Damn… welcome back, double-oh-seven…"

"You used to call it 'visiting the Batcave'."

"That was back when…" For the second time that day, Scott turned around on a dime; that voice was altogether too familiar… and he'd responded automatically to it, without it even registering for several seconds. "I don't believe it…"

But there he was, in the flesh, his former partner – older, grayer, but unmistakably Kelly Robinson. How long had it been? He looked fine, no extra weight, and the gray hair actually looked pretty good on him. It would have been great to see him – under any other circumstances.

Robinson took a deep breath of his own. "Dr. Scott… welcome to the humble abode of those of us still in the shackles of the Federal Government."

"You mean my taxes pay for this? They got you, too?"

"No, my friend. _I've _got you."

That also took a moment to sink in. "_You_? You engineered this whole thing? I spent five hours in the back seat of some rolling Quaker Meeting, imagining how I was gonna beat the living daylights out of the guy who did this… and _you're _the guy who did this?"

Robinson nodded, and gestured for Scott to take a seat. His 'guest' declined. "I understand you made quite a mess out of the audio monitoring devices in the limousine."

"_Bugs_. They're called 'bugs'. Remember? Or don't you guys in the suits talk any straighter now than they did when Russ was in charge? Kel, what did they do to you?"

His former partner shrugged, and took a seat. "They promoted me. Several times, in fact."

"Well, congratulations." Scott's words fairly pulsed with insincerity. "Listen, I'd really love to hang around your little party all day, but I've got a wife at home who thinks maybe I got blown up earlier today and I'd like to dispel that rumor before she goes selling off my golf clubs, not to mention that I recently saw a co-worker incinerated in my car."

"I'm sorry about Markham," Kelly said simply, almost flatly. "Friend of yours?"

"The guy was a shin splint in an argyle sweater, just a well-dressed, aggravating little pain… but he was a human being, and now he's dead."

"And I'm sorry about Emily, but I can't let you call her yet."

"For God's sake, Kel, I don't see you or hear from you for fifteen years, and when I finally do, we're back watching things explode and people die! Why couldn't we ever just sit around and watch the game on TV and eat fried food and get our cholesterol elevated like normal guys?"

Kelly had expected this; nobody had a more clear-cut right to be angry than Alexander Scott just at that moment, and he was willing to listen to him blow off some steam. "I don't know, Scotty," he admitted quietly, looking out a window at nothing in particular. "I'm sorry."

"Well, thanks; the fact that you're sorry makes everything just peachy." Stand-off: neither man said anything for what seemed like eons. Then finally: "Who did it?" Scott inquired in an expressionless monotone.

"We don't know. That's the truth. I wish it wasn't, but it is. That's why you're here. You're a target."

"Why?"

"We don't know that either."

"My tax dollars at work." Scott accepted the seat he'd been offered earlier. "I suppose we should find out."

"That would be prudent, yes."

"Who've you got on it? Not that puppy from the limo, that guy with the 'Our Gang' haircut?"

"Afraid so. Our leads, unfortunately, are few and far between at this point."

"But you knew something was up. Otherwise, you wouldn't have had Abbott and Costello right there to grab me and stuff me in the car."

"Recent events led us to believe that you were a likely target."

"What recent events?"

"That's…"

"Don't you dare tell me it's classified, Kelly, because if you do, I'm taking my football and I'm going home, and I'd like to see anybody… including you and all the king's men… try to stop me. You can't drag me all the way here and then keep me in the dark."

"It'd be safer for you if I did, you know."

"I thought I was safe driving to work this morning. I've got a right to know," Scott pressed. "What about my family? You can't just…"

"I don't know."

"Is there anything you _do _know?"

"I know we've got to get a lock on these guys fast, or a whole lot of people are likely to get hurt, and I couldn't really say whether Emily and the kids would be in the line of fire or not. I know _you _are, and if I let you go home right now, I can't guarantee that your house won't go up like a bottle rocket when you put your key in the lock. You're a magnet; they want you and they don't care who they have to go through to get you. Emily's safer if you stay right here."

That was true; much as Scotty hated to hear it, he knew it was true. He took a few seconds to digest that information, then looked back at Kelly. "So… how've you been?"

Kelly came as close to smiling as he had in days. "Younger."

"I know the feeling."

oo0oo

As Kelly and Scotty worked through the swirling fog of the past two decades, night fell on suburban Washington, and streetlights came on all over town. Outside the brick townhouse, two men in dark clothes made their way around the front of the building, deliberately trying to keep clear of the glare of the streetlamps. Light blazed inside, and the men were careful to stay away from the windows as well; their errand was not one to be witnessed… not directly, at any rate. They were fully aware of the security measures in effect, and had extensive knowledge of how to circumvent them. Limitless guile and vast experience were their allies.

Pure folly was on their side as well, since it was not their own. There was only one man watching the door of the townhouse, and his youth and inexperience both contributed greatly to his sudden, violent demise. The coded lock on the front entrance gave way, as expected, to the code tortured out of yet another operative some time earlier. As the front door swung open, the two shadowy figures dragged their grisly trophy inside and closed the door to the street behind them.

They could hear voices from beyond the double doors to the front parlor, and were confident their entry had not been noticed. The one who'd just committed a cold-blooded murder with all the panache and indifference of swatting a mosquito removed a micro-transmitter from the sleeve of his dark sweater and spoke into it with muted, measured tones.

"Domino Effect, phase one. Complete."

oo0oo

Miles away in an ornate gallery reminiscent of a Greek palace, the message was received by the man who'd set the wheels in motion in the first place. He pressed a button on his receiver and sent his reply. "Chain reaction."

Sorgi was a clever man. He always had been, with a style that was known and respected around the world. Years of plying the mercenary's trade, of dealing in the buying and selling of coveted top-secret information, had sharpened his wits to a razor edge. The men he pursued were not strangers; he knew them well. Once, they had nearly destroyed his empire. That was something he found difficult to forget – or forgive.

He'd invented the coded terminology himself, especially for this mission involving the two men who had once been known by the collective name 'Domino'. It was one of the most elementary laws of physics: knocking down one domino sent the rest of the chain into a helpless tailspin.

And that was his intention: implementing the chain reaction that would knock Domino down, until nothing was left standing. 'Chain reaction', indeed. _Annihilation _was a more accurate word.


	3. Chapter 3

As usual, Scotty politely refused the offer of a drink. "You remain pure, I see," Robinson commented, pouring himself a scotch on the rocks.

"More or less. That stuff'll kill you, you know."

Kelly downed half of the drink in one swallow. "Do tell." He sat down on the couch; a calico cat appeared from behind a nearby chair and reclined on the floor at his feet.

"Nice cat," Scott remarked for lack of anything else to say.

"It's not mine."

The animal stretched lazily. "Well, it sure thinks it is. It got a name?"

"Espie."

"Just one more girl at your feet, right? Almost all calico cats are female, you know. Genetics."

"Is that so?" Kelly sighed disinterestedly.

"So what have we here, anyway? The bachelor pad of the century?"

"You'd be surprised… maybe."

Scotty grinned. "Same old Kelly, right? They still circle you like jumbo jets at Dulles waiting for clearance to land. What was okay for a thirty-year-old tennis bum starts to look a little bit funny on a middle-aged desk jockey. You know that, don't you?" He spotted a photograph on a nearby end table, just about the only thing in the room that didn't look like it had been put there by a window dresser at Macy's in New York. "Well, here we go… Bachelorette Number One." The photo was of a raven-haired woman, casually dressed in a sweater and jeans, sitting on a rock ledge against a backdrop of the ocean; she was smiling, and she could easily have been a poster girl for the "Life Begins At Forty" ads on television. "Very nice." Scott raised a suggestive eyebrow. "Name?"

"Susan Tyler."

"And where is the lady, pray tell?"

His teasing tone failed to elicit a complementary response. Instead, Kelly downed what was left in his glass. The scotch warmed him momentarily, just long enough for him to answer. "She died."

Scott changed his tone. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too."

"A long time?"

"An eternity. Tuesday."

"You want to talk about it?" Scotty set the photograph back in its place with great care.

"Not particularly, no."

"Well, I _am _a doctor, you know. If you ever have a problem… like with conjugation of irregular Spanish verbs, or something… you can always talk to me about it."

Kelly nodded slowly, looking at the ice swirling in the bottom of his otherwise empty glass. "Yeah, I know." He wasn't ready to talk about Susan, though; not yet. She'd been part of his life for three years, and now she was gone. _It's just not time enough. _Scotty meant well; he always did. _Just… not yet._

"Espie's her cat, then."

"It doesn't like me much."

"Why do you keep it around?"

"It was Susan's, and it's alive." The man's voice was as flat and expressionless as the cat's green eyes.

"When you said 'recent events' made you think somebody was after me…"

"I also said I didn't want to talk about it, or don't you remember that part? They say short-term memory is shot after fifty; did you know that, doctor? How come mine works, and yours doesn't?" Scott waited silently for Kelly to back up and try again; his volatile friend had always been this way, and age hadn't tempered his reactions much. "She got run off the road on her way home from work. Hit a tree. The car burned. It happened fast. That's all."

"Is it?"

"Call Emily. Let her know you're okay." Kelly tipped his glass up again before remembering it was empty.

It was tempting to drop the whole subject and take advantage of the man's change of heart, but Scott couldn't do it. "You think maybe whoever ran Susan off the road might have sent my new car and my colleague to kingdom come?"

Kelly nodded, sending the melting ice in the bottom of his glass around in lazy circles. "That's right. And I also think they were disappointed that I wasn't with her that night. I usually rode home with her on Tuesdays… there's a movie theater in Arlington that plays black-and-white films from the forties on Tuesdays. She liked…" He paused. "…stupid stuff like that…"

"Well…" Scotty crossed the room to the telephone and picked up the receiver. "I guess we'd better start looking for them, then. Let me just tell Em not to wait up."

Kelly didn't bother looking up. "Don't tell her where you are, okay?"

"Shoot, you think a mere twenty years out of the spy biz has totally short-circuited my brain? Of course I'm not gonna tell her where I am." As the phone rang faintly in his living room in Philadelphia, seemingly a world away, he tried to imagine what in the world he was going to say when he got an answer. "Besides, the woman reads minds. Don't ask me how, but she already knows more about this than I do; I'd put good money on it."

After one ring, the phone was grabbed out of its cradle and he heard Emily's frightened voice. "Hello? Alexander?"

"Hiya, hon. Listen… don't hold dinner, all right?"

Emily Scott was certain of one thing: when her husband was telling the truth. Truth wasn't a special occasion with Alexander; anything other than the truth was generally confined to 'little white lies' and their ilk – like claiming he'd forgotten their anniversary, and then finding out he'd reserved the honeymoon suite at the Hilton. During this particular telephone conversation, though, he had the distinct impression he wasn't being completely… open. Perhaps it was because, when she asked him where he was, he simply said, "I can't tell you that, hon."

"Why not?"

"Well… I can't tell you that, either."

"Alexander…"

"Look, I'm okay. That's the important thing. That's what I need you to know right now. Are _you _okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm just glad to hear your voice. You know, your car…"

"Yeah, I know about the car. Forget about it. Don't think about it."

"Alexander, I'm frightened."

He couldn't blame her for that. "Don't be. All right? Everything's fine, and I'll see you real soon. Okay?"

"_You're_ not the one who's been sitting here for hours, wondering if you'd ever hear your voice again."

"I know that," he said calmly. "I'm sorry." _Damn this whole spy business, _he thought bitterly. _It never really cuts you loose, does it? Just one day, when you least expect it, you're right back smack in the middle of the whole seething mess all over again. _"I'll be home as soon as I can. Kiss the kids for me."

"Why won't you tell me where you are?"

"Because I can't." It was that simple.

"Will you be careful?"

"Yes, I will be careful. I'll call again when I can."

"Wait! You had a phone call before. I almost forgot, but I think it might be important…" He waited while she rummaged for the scrap of paper she'd written it on. "A Mr. Sorgi called. That's all, but he said it was important, and I should tell you as soon as I heard from you. Who is he?"

_Sorgi_. Scotty felt his blood run cold, but he kept an even cadence to his voice in spite of it. "Oh, somebody I used to know… that's all."

"Is it important?"

"Yes, hon, I think it might be." It was a struggle to keep that calm tone, but he managed. "Thanks, Em."

"All right. I love you."

"I love you, too."

He hung up before he could re-think the whole thing. It would have been easy – oh, so easy – to tell Kelly Robinson he was on his own this time; he could be on the next bus back to Philly. It was so easy he didn't even really think seriously about it, because he was too afraid he might give in to the compulsion.

"Everything okay?" Kelly asked from his seat on the sofa, trying not to slur his words, and not being terribly successful about it.

"Yeah, everything's okay. You know, I'm married to the only woman in the Western Hemisphere who doesn't get a stupid, half-baked phone call like that and hang up and be halfway to the lawyer's office to sue for divorce before the line goes cold."

"Emily's quite a woman."

"Thanks, I know she'll just love to hear that you feel that way."

"Does she know… about before?"

Scotty sighed and took a seat. He wished – not for the first time that evening – that he could pour a couple of fingers of fine old scotch and use it for an emotional bandage, like Kelly was so able to do. "Some of it, yes. She's probably always been afraid, part of her, that this would happen, and she's probably not all that surprised that now it has. So, are we gonna find these guys, or what?"

"I would, if I had any idea where to start looking."

"Well, as a matter of pure and total coincidence, our old friend Mr. Sorgi called my house today. He wanted Emily to be sure and let me know about it. Would you want to start by asking Mr. Sorgi what he might know about the matter?"

That snapped Kelly out of his semi-stupor like a shot. "Yes, sir, I would indeed."

"Why's he calling my house? Aren't you in the book?"

"Under my maiden name. Cuts down on sales calls." Kelly reflexively checked his ever-present sidearm. _Loaded. Ready. _Just like he was. _Terrific… _"Sounds like Mr. Sorgi is interested in seeing the two of us together."

"It does at that."

"Could I possibly interest you in a little health insurance?" Kelly indicated his pistol.

"I imagine."

"Bullets?"

"Why not? Let's complete the look."

"You know there's only one thing to do."

"Of course… dine out."

Not such a radical notion, actually, at least where the agent and former agent were concerned. They'd learned years ago that the best way to get an adversary to tip his hand was to lean over a bit and give him a fighting chance. When someone was looking for them, they liked to be easy to find, so _they _could pick the venue. Dinner out was perfect…

… or it _would _ have been perfect, had the cold, silent body of young agent Chet Martin not fallen into Kelly Robinson's living room when Scott opened the door. That changed things.


	4. Chapter 4

Scotty moved quickly to catch the young man and lower him gently to the carpeted floor, knowing even as he did so that breaking his fall wouldn't spare him any pain; he couldn't feel any at all, and never would again. Kelly slammed the door shut with his left shoulder, poised to retaliate, gun in hand. Seeing no target, he holstered his weapon and knelt with Scotty beside the body of the young agent. He too knew, but asked anyway. "Dead?"

"What do you think?"

A grim curse escaped Robinson. "He was twenty-two…"

"Well, he won't see twenty-three."

"You all right?" In Kelly's opinion, Scott didn't look it.

Another nod, unconvincing at best. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be? Just thinking about the classroom full of twenty-two-year-olds waiting for me back in Philly."

"Take some old-fashioned medical advice, Doctor. _Don't_."

"You got that right." Scotty took a deep breath. "It never gets easier, does it?"

"No," Kelly answered coldly. "It doesn't."

The Company agent motioned to his former partner to double back around the room to the front windows; Scotty understood and complied. A quick visual scan outside revealed exactly what they'd expected to see: a lot of nothing. No strange cars, no shadowy figures skulking about. So, it stood to reason that whoever had killed Chet Martin was in the house, and in all probability stalking them at that very moment.

Showtime.

They came together again just inside the parlor doors. "I don't suppose it would do any good for me to tell you to just stay out of the way," Kelly observed.

"I got a stake in this. I had a full roll of bridge and tunnel tokens in the glove compartment of the car these guys trashed."

"I'd feel better about it if you also had a gun."

"So would I, Kel."

Making wish lists just then was a waste of time, and they both knew it; they were at a disadvantage, probably outnumbered, and inadequately armed. Nothing new. Kelly had extended the obligatory 'be a civilian' offer, and Scott had declined it. Time to move on.

As Kelly slowly worked his way up the familiar staircase to the second floor, his back pressed to the wall so tightly he could almost feel the seams in the wallpaper, he was forced to acknowledge how much time had passed since he'd last had to do this kind of thing. Nine years behind a desk was a long time, longer than anybody who ever expected to do field work again should spend sitting down. _The last time was in Brussels…_

Best forgotten, although he didn't seem to be able to, even after all this time. What had gone wrong in Brussels? They'd never quite been able to pin it down, not even after debriefing, interrogation, exhaustive investigation, hypnosis… what _hadn't _they tried on him?

A missed signal, a misinterpreted code… a good agent had been killed, and the snafu had almost cost Kelly his life as well. 'A lapse in judgment'. That had been the final label. And they had punched his one-way ticket to a windowless office under the guise of a promotion.

No matter how many times he went over it, the result was always the same. Kelly didn't _know _why he hadn't performed properly, and he had to accept the consequences. That didn't mean he had to like it. What it did mean was that he had nine years of rubber-stamping to push aside now if he were going to get back into the swing of things.

There was no 'try'. There were only 'succeed' and 'fail'. Just like Brussels.

oo0oo

On his way toward the kitchen at the rear of the townhouse's ground floor, Scotty was confronting some demons of his own. After all, it had been twice as long since he'd been on the front lines, and to claim it made no difference was to sign your own death warrant. This wasn't like riding a bicycle.

_After almost twenty years of standing up in front of lecture halls and signing department memos, here's your linguistics professor, Dr. Alexander Scott of the University of Pennsylvania, the Rotary Club, and the P.T.A., making his way down a hallway towards a kitchen that might be filled to brimming with killers… buy your tickets in advance; one show only. Oh, and those of you in the front row might want to keep your heads down…_

Just as he reached the swinging kitchen door, it swung – outward. The impact slammed him against the wall, and gave the men inside the kitchen enough time to subdue him before he could get his breath and fight back. It was all very quick and nearly quiet, over in seconds.

_Object lesson number one: you can take the spy out of the professor, but you can't take the professor out of the spy._

oo0oo

Upstairs, Kelly heard what little there was of the struggle. The back stairs led directly to the kitchen. That was the route he took.

The scenario he found was almost Norman Rockwell come to surburbia… until you noticed the guns. Scotty sat at the kitchen table, flanked by two clean-cut young collegiate types… one of whom was holding an automatic pistol to his temple.

"Hi, Kel," Scott said casually. "Have you met our guests?"

oo0oo

Scotty quickly gained a new appreciation for the day's earlier abduction. At least that time he'd not been tied up, had a wide piece of silver duct tape slapped over his mouth, and been stuffed into the trunk of a car – with Kelly's elbow in his left kidney. When the time came to buy a new car, he promised himself it would not be a black 1984 Lincoln Continental – by the time this test drive was over, he expected to have enough bad vibes to last a lifetime. However long that might turn out to be. Of course, from the viewpoint of The Other Side, it was perfect; there was nothing the neighbors were more used to than big black cars that came and went at all hours, and it was more than likely nobody would take any special notice of this one.

He twisted a little, ignoring his companion's muffled protest… there was precious little room to maneuver… as he tried to snag a corner of the tape on the carpeting of the trunk and pull it off his mouth. If nothing else, it would make communication… and breathing… considerably easier.

It actually worked. _First thing that's gone right in hours. Painful, but an improvement. _"Kel…" he struggled to say in the stale air of the trunk, "see if you can…"

"Thanks, Professor… I remember this one too." _Now, if there's enough air in here to keep us going until we __get__ where we're going… why doesn't The Other Side ever drive a compact foreign car, anyway? A hatchback, anything without a trunk… it's such a lousy way to travel._

Kelly thought about trying to pull the drain plug to allow some fresh air into the trunk, then realized they'd probably never be able to manage it without lifting the carpeting, and there was little enough elbow room as it was. A plan that had once worked in a Studebaker when he'd been kidnapped by himself had limited usefulness in a Lincoln when he had company in the trunk. He ran his tongue over parched and smarting lips. "Can you reach the ropes on my wrists?"

"I don't think so. You?"

"I can't even _find _your wrists."

"That's a problem."

"Indeed."

"I think we're just gonna have to enjoy this lovely scenic drive as best we can until we get where we're going."


	5. Chapter 5

Judging by the time frame, they hadn't left the city of Washington. It just _felt _like forever, wedged as they were in the stifling heat of the trunk, their hands tightly bound. Their destination was a warehouse… and, since all warehouses look pretty much like all other warehouses, it was impossible to guess where this particular one might be located.

The two men were hauled out of the trunk, led at gunpoint to an upper floor, and untied, then shoved into an oppressive little room featuring cinderblock construction, a single door, and a distinctly unfestive atmosphere. That was all they could tell in the light of one dim forty-watt bulb that burned indecisively in the bare socket above their heads. All in all, the place was about as comfy-cozy as the trunk had been. A quick look around, and both were convinced of its security.

Scotty leaned against one wall. "If this is, as I hope, a surprise birthday party for me, I really wish you'd say something."

"Sorry, Scotty. This party's a surprise to me too."

"Well, then, here we are again."

"Have we been here before?"

"Sure we have, Kel. The infamous locked room. We've been here a hundred times."

"Beats me why we keep coming back. There's nothing to see, really." Kelly took a cursory look out the small barred window set in the door. "Behind Door Number One, we have an incredibly large and vicious gargantua in a bad suit. And that's the good news."

"What about Door Number Two?"

"There is no Door Number Two. That's the bad news."

"Ah, but there _is _a window, which I would like to draw your U.S.-Government-approved self's attention toward." Scotty pointed upward; indeed there was a small window, located about ten feet above the concrete floor.

"Terrific. Who's going to climb up there? You? My health insurance doesn't cover circus acts."

"You're gettin' old, Kel," his friend berated him as he moved toward the window.

"And you, sir, are getting senile. There's no way you can make it up there without a forklift."

"Want to bet?"

"I only place bets with sane people."

"Fine. Just give me a boost."

"Wait a second! How did _I_ end up being the guy on the bottom?"

"You just said you couldn't climb up the…"

"I didn't say I would cheerfully lift you up there, either."

"So don't be cheerful. Just lift. I got dinner waitin' for me back in Philly, you know. I haven't got all night."

Scotty waited expectantly for the other man to make up his mind; it didn't take long. Soon, Kelly was down on one knee, Scott's left foot in his cupped hands, then hoisting his fellow prisoner up just high enough to allow him to see over the sill of the getting-higher-by-the-second window. No doubt about it: Scotty had put on a few pounds since the last time they'd tried this.

"What's up there?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"You know you can see the Washington Monument from here?"

Kelly groaned softly, exasperation mixing with an increasing pain in his lower back. "No, actually I did not know that. Did _you _know your shoe's untied?"

"No kiddin'? You mind tyin' it while you're down there?"

"Give me one good reason not to drop you."

"Okay." Scotty jumped down on his own. "You might need me later on. And there's no way we're gonna get out through that window."

"Thank you very much." Kelly straightened with an effort. "That's your professional opinion, is it?"

"That is my educated opinion. It's about six floors straight down, no fire escape, no ledge, and there's electrical tape all around the sash. It's on an alarm."

"Okay, so we're not getting out that way." Kelly removed his jacket and began rolling it up into a ball. "But do you really feel like spending a whole lot of time in here?"

"Not particularly. What have you got in mind, _kemo sabe_?"

"Oh, I was just thinking that maybe we could trip that alarm, and then maybe wait until somebody opens the door, and then I thought we might make a run for it. Sound okay to you, Tonto?"

"Your faithful sidekick is in awe of your learned wisdom."

"Outstanding. You can start by giving _me _a boost." Kelly flashed his partner one of his patented movie-star smiles, mentally evening the score of a few minutes before.

Scotty got down next to the wall under the window. "I figured sooner or later you were gonna get back at me for that one."

"And if things go the way I plan, it should take me about two hours to knock this window out."

"I thought so."

Kelly stepped into Scotty's cupped hands and wrapped his jacket around his right hand and forearm. The window was a standard model, nothing special, and broke nicely on contact with his cushioned fist. As expected, an alarm began to wail somewhere inside the building as the first breath of hot but fresh air found its way into the stifling little room.

The two men wasted no time positioning themselves on either side of the only door, certain that at any moment they were going to have company… probably a lot, and probably all exercising their Constitutional right to bear arms.

They weren't disappointed. Less than a minute after the alarm went off, their door opened as predicted. The first unlucky soul stepped inside, and was neatly dispatched by Kelly's lightning-fast karate chop to the neck. Scotty tackled the next one, the gargantua, around the knees; both of them went down struggling, but Scotty won quickly with a right cross that still packed a wallop.

"You've still got it," Kelly observed shrewdly, arming himself with the weapon belonging to the first fallen man.

"I just wish I didn't need it." Scotty did likewise with the gun surrendered by his opponent, who wouldn't be needing it anytime soon. "Now, which way out of this funhouse?"

"Hey, the window bit was my idea. It's your turn to think of something captivatingly brilliant."

"Would you settle for possibly workable?"

"Anything, Scotty… just make it quick."

As they stepped out into the hallway, the alarm bell stopped, and they realized the sound of many rapidly approaching heavy feet had taken its place. The narrow corridor afforded no cover at all. A decision had to be made, and Scott made it. "Run like crazy!"

The hallway ended in a T-intersection not far from the room they'd just escaped from. As they reached the end of the corridor, their pursuers closed on them sufficiently to shoot and make it count; a volley of gunfire ricocheted off the solid wall in front of them. There was no time to discuss which way to go, no time for a committee decision no matter how small the committee. Kelly dove left, Scotty dove right. And they kept running, this time in opposite directions.

Their hasty maneuver wasn't completely without merit. If they separated, the odds were better that at least one of them would get away. But in the brilliant-ideas category, it ranked only slightly above 'turn and surrender'. Scotty was the first to discover the dynamic flaw in the plan. When he stopped momentarily to try and get his bearings, a solid blunt object pressed into the base of his spine, and a voice directly behind him warned, "Don't move."

Scotty considered it. In his younger days, it would have been a good bet that he could turn, kick the weapon from the hand that held it, and get away clean and unscathed – but not now. He was out of practice, out of breath, and the father of three kids who would prefer having him back home in one piece; he couldn't take the chance.

Angry, he let his gun clatter to the hard tile floor; his captor immediately kicked it out of reach.

They had him. One down. He hoped it was _only _one.

oo0oo

Kelly paused when he reached yet another intersecting hallway. The place was a maze; these old buildings often were, once several consecutive owners imprinted their own floor plans on a place, and there was no telling which way was out. Several doors led off the hallway; those he had tried so far were locked, and he didn't have time to try tripping the locks; his pursuers were still much too close for comfort.

He made yet another blind guess and a right turn, hoping Scotty was having better luck… and also hoping his new route would lead to something besides more dim halls and locked doors. A stairway would be nice.

And luck, it appeared, might be catching up with him. Ahead, he could just make out a door that was barely ajar; the whisker of light shining around the doorjamb was a welcome sight in the near total darkness.

He started towards it cautiously, his right index finger never straying from the trigger of his borrowed gun. Light implied occupancy, and so far, the occupants of this place weren't people he was comfortable socializing with.

When Kelly reached the door, he kicked it wide open, stepping back out of the line of potential fire. Nothing happened; the only sound was the hollow thump the door made when it hit the wall behind it and bounced back. Kelly pushed it once more, this time stepping into the room as he did so.

The room didn't belong in a warehouse; it belonged in the Smithsonian. Antiques, oriental rugs, ancient knick-knacks of every shape and description were strewn around the large gallery, amidst pieces of furniture that were certainly as old and valuable as any of the art objects.

Then he realized that there was a perfectly logical reason for all of it… and the reason sat quite calmly behind an expansive inlaid oak desk, raising a silver cordial goblet in Kelly's direction. "Welcome, Mr. Robinson," he said.

Kelly aimed his revolver at the man's head, but his target didn't appear the least bit troubled by the unfriendly gesture. "Mr. Sorgi," he returned the greeting, although with none of the other's implied graciousness.

To hell with the exit. Kelly had what he wanted.


	6. Chapter 6

Scotty hit the floor hard, almost forgetting to roll, and consequently almost dislocating his shoulder. The door slammed shut before he could get to his knees. He shook his head to clear it, and when he looked up, the first thing he saw was a spoon… held at close range, in as threatening a manner as the woman wielding it could possibly manage.

"Hi…" he began cautiously. "Um… could I ask you what it is you're planning to do with that?"

She backed up a step, both hands clutching the spoon as though it were a switchblade and she were a Jet from _West Side Story_. "Don't come near me."

"Okay, okay. Although I gotta tell you, if that's all we've got for self-defense around here, we're both in big trouble." He got to his feet slowly, trying to avoid panicking the first resident of the – yes, it had to be – locked room.

He confirmed that the room was indeed locked, then turned back to his 'hostess'. "So, alone at last. My name's Alexander."

oo0oo

Sorgi indicated the cut-crystal decanter beside him. "Will you join me for a drink?"

Kelly shook his head. "It's a little early for me. I'll pass."

"As you wish. Do put that gun down, though. As you see, I am alone and unarmed."

"So are most rattlesnakes. I don't drink with them, either."

Sorgi allowed himself a sly smile, further reinforcing the rattlesnake analogy. "Yes… still the fast talk, the devil-may-care attitude. Quite unique. I have encountered many hundreds of foreign agents in my line of work, Mr. Robinson, and none were quite as entertaining as you and Mr. Scott. I am sure you will agree, though, that sometimes one must talk seriously. Not everything in life is a joke, a game."

"Oh, I don't know. I always try to keep a happy thought."

"Do you? Then I salute you, sir, for your strength of character. I would have thought something as unfortunate as Miss Tyler's automobile accident would have altered your way of thinking. But perhaps she was not that important to you."

_Susan_. Kelly felt a sudden fresh rush of outrage at the memory of that night, of the late news crew with their cameras pointed down the steep slope of the culvert to the miniature crematorium that had once been Susan's MG convertible. When he replied, his throat was tight. "Yes, sir, she was," he said stiffly, fighting the urge to display more of his internal fury. "And I can guarantee that only one of us will leave this room alive."

"My thoughts exactly, Mr. Robinson."

By the time Kelly heard the soft hiss of a sliding hydraulic panel in the wall to his right and turned to react, it was too late. He felt something hit him, and when he looked down, he saw the ornate handle of a small hunting knife protruding from his thigh. The pain took a few moments to register, but it came soon enough. The gun slipped from his hand, and his knees buckled.

oo0oo

"What are you doing here?", she asked.

This woman could never be taken in by charm; being locked in a room with her was like swimming in a Dixie cup with a piranha. _Actually, maybe a piranha would be just a shade less aggressive_, Scotty thought to himself. She still hadn't put the spoon down, apparently not as dubious as he was about its value as a weapon, and although she didn't appear interested in making nice, neither was she eager to initiate an attack. Rather, she seemed to expect it from _him._

He shrugged, a combination of both disarming and frustrated body language. "I don't know. You better ask the guy who just shoved me in here. All I know is I'm gonna be late for work." He leaned against a wall and tried to focus his thoughts. Things weren't going at all well; no indeed, they weren't. "How long have you been in here?"

"Why?"

"Look, I'm not trying to make smalltalk. I'm trying to get a handle on where we are and maybe what's likely to happen to us. If I just wanted idle chit-chat, I'd be at a faculty meeting."

She relaxed a little. A solicitous manner from a total stranger under these circumstances would likely put her more on the defensive; straight talk was his best shot at straight answers. "I don't know," she answered, and he believed her. "Four or five days, I guess."

"What do they want with you?"

"I don't know that either." Her shoulders slumped, and for the first time she lowered both the spoon and her hostile manner. "That's the truth. They don't talk to me, they just come every now and then with some food and water."

"Well, that's a reasonably good sign. Listen, I guess there's no reason why you ought to trust me, given these conditions, but I wish you would. I'm not one of the bad guys, honest."

"I wouldn't know a bad guy from a Jehovah's Witness right now," she admitted, running a hand through her tangled dark curls. "Nothing makes any sense. I just don't understand… what's your name again?"

"Alexander."

"I'm Susan."

_Susan…? _In another second, Scotty had connected the name with the memory of a face seen only once, in a photograph… in Kelly's townhouse. "Susan Tyler?"

"Yes…" The suspicious look was back in her eyes. "But how do you know…?"

Scotty laughed… something he'd been almost sure he'd never be able to do again. _Sorgi, playing the odds, and stacking the deck in his favor, just like always. _She was alive because she was insurance, a carrot to dangle in front of Kelly if the opportunity presented itself. And Sorgi's plans didn't always work out to the letter, thank God. For if they did, Alexander Scott knew very well he'd have been killed in his car at the university and would now be nothing but a memory. "I'd hug you right now, Susan Tyler, but you'd spoon-thrash me until I couldn't see straight. I can tell you, though, that you'll need more than that spoon to keep Kelly Robinson off you when he lays eyes on you."

Suddenly, all fear and suspicion were gone from her eyes. "Kelly…" she whispered. A hint of a hopeful, anxious smile touched the corners of her mouth. "How do you know Kelly?"

"It's a long story, and I promise to tell it to you later. Right now, we're getting out of here."

"I'm game. How?"

"Well, that's the tricky part, you see."

"Terrific."

Scotty realized for the first time that, although she wore what had once been a crisp beige linen suit and nylon stockings, her feet were bare. "What happened to your shoes?"

"They took them."

"Sorgi's got a thing for patent leather pumps these days?"

"Well, it might have something to do with the fact that I knocked one of them out when I slugged him with one of my high heels."

He grinned broadly. "When we get out of here, I'm taking you to a prize-fight. Maybe you can teach the heavyweight champ a thing or two. Until then, you've got another weapon we can use."

"I do?"

"Take off your nylons." When she looked at him quizzically, he chivalrously turned his back, and even put a hand over his eyes. "And the second part of this plan is, don't _ever_ tell Kelly I said that to you."

Obligingly, although still completely in the dark as to what Scott had in mind, Susan peeled off her battered stockings and handed them to him. He then picked up her spoon, and considered both items thoughtfully, mentally weighing the possibilities. "Not bad…"

"Are you going to tell me what it is we're about to do?"

"Absolutely. Just as soon as I figure it out for sure myself." Another few seconds, and he had an idea. "Can you give me a really good scream?"

She nodded. "How good?"

"I would like for you to attempt to wake the not-so-recently-deceased in Mexico City, if possible."

She smiled with complete confidence. "Say when."


	7. Chapter 7

"A very poor throw indeed. My apologies, Mr. Robinson," Sorgi said with a slow shake of his head. "Done properly, it can be quite painless, you know." He gestured sharply to the tall man who stood in the newly revealed recess in the gallery wall. The man stepped toward Kelly, kicking the gun away before he could reach for it again.

Kelly had a choice: risk further damage and leave the knife in his leg, or risk bleeding to death by pulling it out. Assuming, of course, that he had long to live in the first place. Decision made, he set his jaw firmly and got his hand around the carved hilt.

It hurt almost as much coming out as it had going in, and both the knife and his fingers were soon covered with his own blood – which also rapidly added a new aspect to the pattern of the plush oriental rug. He doubted the blade had struck an artery, but did not doubt that the balance of power had now been shifted to Sorgi.

It shifted even further when the other man drew a revolver from the top drawer of his elaborate desk. "You may think this is an unfair contest, Mr. Robinson, and in some ways, I agree it is, although I know you will remember that, a few moments ago, it was you holding a gun on an unarmed man."

_Well, not completely unarmed… I've got a knife. 'Unfair' is in the eye of the guy on the floor, bleeding himself into a faint. _But the knife was useless to Kelly. In his present condition, an accurate throw was completely out of the question.

"It was never my intention to kill you, Mr. Robinson," Sorgi continued. "I intended to break you, as you broke me. You and Mr. Scott quite completely put me out of business some time ago, you understand."

"So you bombed his car?" Kelly demanded. "Killed an innocent man?"

Sorgi shrugged nonchalantly. "Business, Mr. Robinson."

"Yeah... I guess times are tough all over..."

It wasn't going to work long, he knew. Sooner or later, he would lose consciousness. Already, the lights in their wall sconces had halos around them. And if he passed out, he strongly suspected the next thing he would hear would be an accompanying harp solo.

oo0oo

The dead in Mexico City all sat up and took notice when Susan screamed on cue. The guard in the hall did, too – which was more a part of Scotty's plan than anybody south of the border. What's more, he raced into the room to find out what heinous crime was being perpetrated… which brought down Scott's estimation of him, particularly when he failed to watch where he was going and succumbed to the taut tripwire of distressed pantyhose held stretched at ankle-height across the doorway.

The manufacturer would have been proud; his product held up well, and the guard went down on his face. Before he could get up again, Scotty had the bent handle of the spoon in his back, hoping it felt enough like the barrel of a gun to be effective, at least long enough to give them a few seconds' head start.

In any case, the guard had a _real _gun, which Scott was only too happy to relieve him of. "Fool you once, shame on me… fool you twice, shame on _you_," the erstwhile professor intoned in his victim's ear. He thrust the gun into his hip pocket, and used the stockings to hastily hog-tie his prisoner. It wouldn't hold forever… but they didn't need forever to get away.

This time, there was no alarm to alert the rest of the building. Scotty and Susan made their way silently around the entire floor before finally locating the stairs.

"You ever shoot before?" Scotty asked.

"Tin cans with a twenty-two."

"Good; you're an expert." He handed her the gun he'd taken from the captured guard, and gestured down the steep flight of stairs. "Okay, take off. Be careful, and be quiet. Get out of the building. Run until you find a bar or a pool hall or whatever's open at this hour, go inside, and call the police. Don't say anything about any of this, just tell them to come get you. You'll be all right."

"Why aren't you coming?"

"Because if Sorgi's in the building, that's where I'll find Kelly. There's no way he just up and left this place without squaring with Sorgi. I know him too well."

"Who is this Sorgi?"

"Didn't I mention it? He's the guy Kelly thinks murdered you." Before she could react, he pushed her gently but firmly towards the stairs. "Go on, get outta here!"

As soon as he was satisfied that Susan was well on her way to safety, Scott turned back into the honeycomb of the warehouse. Without doubt, finding Sorgi would mean finding Kelly. The condition he was likely to find Kelly _in _was what he wanted to spare Susan.

oo0oo

"Are you listening, Mr. Robinson?"

"What is there, a quiz later on…?" Even that much was an effort; Kelly was fighting a losing battle, and knew it.

"I am a dealer, an entrepreneur… a businessman. I am not a cold-blooded killer."

"Yeah, well, you could've fooled me…"

"It is a rather convenient arrangement, I find, not to have loyalties or patriotism to get in my way. Anything for a price, to any side of any conflict. I have done a great deal of business with your own government over the years. I have my own code of ethics, and I follow it to the letter. I have never shot a man when he was down."

"Well, there's a first time for everything… I've never been shot _at _when I was down."

"Please forgive my roundabout way of requesting that you stand."

A heavy hand on his shoulder and a rough yank put him on his feet, courtesy of the hulking Neanderthal who had appeared out of the wall like so many other rats had been known to do. Balanced on one leg, the other hurting like hell, dizzy from loss of blood, Kelly Robinson almost didn't believe what he saw _behind _Sorgi…

There was somebody else behind the hidden panel, which was open just wide enough for a hand to reach through and grope up and down the wall of the gallery. In a moment, he realized the hand was trying to find the light switch. In another moment, he recognized the hand…

"Is there anything you would like to say?" Sorgi inquired with remarkable courtesy, considering he was planning to kill a man in the next couple of seconds.

Kelly nodded, blinking perspiration out of his eyes. "A little to the left…"

The gallery was suddenly plunged into total darkness.

A split second later, a gun went off.


	8. Chapter 8

Kelly heard the bullet pass uncomfortably close to his ear, but his attention was focused on finding the tall man who'd thrown the knife. He found the man's fist quite easily, although quite by accident, and grabbed him, determined to get his hands on the rest of his assailant.

Across the room, another struggle was taking place. "Scotty!" he called into the darkness, throwing a blind punch that somehow found its target.

"Yeah!" Scott's reply was followed by the sound of splintering furniture.

"Get the lights on!"

"I'm kinda busy right now, Kel!"

Breaking glass… then the lights came on. One fist clenched tightly in the other, Kelly struck hard on the back of his opponent's neck, and the other man went down like a swamped sand castle, with Kelly right on top of him. Nearby, Scott had Sorgi's gun, and held the broker at bay. "You all right?" he asked.

Kelly tried to get up and failed, his leg refusing to take his weight. "Not really… you…?"

"I've been better."

"Is he dead?" The tentative, frightened female voice behind him caught Kelly's attention immediately. Feminine, familiar… _Impossible… _But he turned around anyway.

"Kelly?" Susan stood there, her hand still on the light switch. "Is that man dead…?"

_Not possible… is it…?_

"No…" he shook his head, half in negation, half because he couldn't believe what he saw. "But _I _might be…"

Susan knelt beside him, and he put his arms around her, tentatively, hardly daring to believe he'd touch anything but air when he reached for her. It wasn't until his head rested on her shoulder that he really believed she was there. "No," she said gently, smiling and holding him as tightly as she dared. "No, you're not dead."

Scotty shook his head. "I said _go. Run. Get out. _I tried to be clear. Nobody listens to me."

At that particular moment, he was absolutely right.

oo0oo

The debriefing lasted for hours, and when it was over, there was still work to do. The identity of the woman who had died in Susan's car had yet to be determined, along with the identities of the men who had killed Chet Martin. Those things, however, could be left for the clean-up crew. Scotty and Kelly were free to go, free to make their exhausted, bruised, hobbling way back to Kelly's townhouse in the first light of the new day. It was hard for Scott to believe that only twenty-four hours had elapsed since he'd pulled his car out of his own driveway to head off to work.

"Have you ever stayed out too late playing cards, then been in real deep trouble when you got home?" he asked as they dragged themselves from the back of the black limousine he personally was ready to designate the Washington DC State Car… he'd seen enough of these in the past day to last him a lifetime.

Kelly shook his head, noticeably favoring his right leg, which was swathed in bandages from the knee up. "Never."

"Well, I have… and that was nothing compared to what's gonna happen to me when we get inside."

"You think Emily'll be mad?"

"Not at all. 'Homicidal' is the adjective I want, and if you think _you're _safe, you'd better think again. You're the reason I ended up here in the first place."

"Limp a little. It makes you look defenseless. Women can't sustain an attack if you're defenseless; it makes 'em feel guilty."

Emily Scott had caught a late-night shuttle to Washington after receiving her husband's call telling her he was all right and on his way into a debriefing. After a shower and a change of clothes, Susan had driven Kelly's car to the airport to pick her up. It had been a long night for everyone. And it wasn't quite over yet.

"We used to handle this better," Scotty remarked as he started up the front steps. "It used to be easy."

"We used to be thirty," his partner reminded him, two stairs behind and climbing with difficulty.

"You think we're old?"

"Absolutely."

"Impossible. The Green Hornet and Kato?"

"With chronological accuracy, Little Orphan Annie would be a grandmother by now." Kelly punched in the new code for the front door lock, and it opened for them. "After you, sir. I believe someone is lying in wait for you."

"Thanks, Ace." As he set foot in the house, Scotty developed a decided limp, and Kelly couldn't help chuckling. "Emily… darling…? Light of my life…?"

The door to the parlor was open, and the two men approached it with all the caution they'd used in approaching countless open doors and obvious booby traps over the years. Things were too quiet…

Soon enough, they found out why.

Both women were fast asleep, Emily on the sofa and Susan on the love seat... with her calico cat curled up on her lap. "Yeah, it used to be different from this," Scotty murmured, heeding Kelly's gesture to lower his voice. "We used to come home to nobody."

"Maybe _you _used to," Kelly corrected him bluntly.

But Scotty was right, this _was _different. He sat down next to Susan and put his hand on hers. "It's still so hard to believe… but here she is." He planned to spend a lot of time reassuring himself of that in the future.

"I'm tellin' you, Kel, that lady was _made_ for you… if any female who ever lived can knock any sense into you, it's Wonder Woman right there." Scotty bent to give Emily a kiss; she murmured in her sleep and stirred a little but didn't wake. "This isn't so bad," he whispered. "I think I like it this way."

"You planning on doing this a lot?"

"I'm planning, my friend, to go home to my house, and my mortgage, and my classroom. I'm planning that, the next time I see you, we won't be playing cops and robbers with real bullets."

"Well, now, I can't promise you anything, you know. You wouldn't want me to lie to you."

"Kelly?"

"Yeah?"

"Lie to me."

oo0oo

The heat wave in Washington DC peaked that afternoon. Neighborhoods were browned out, and air conditioners blew fuses all over town. On the periphery of Washington, however, at least four people didn't complain.

Some things just aren't that important.

THE END


End file.
